


Inheritance

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Conflict Resolution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John says nothing, just slips into his shoes and walks out the front door.  Sherlock does the same and follows.  John scans the street for a cab, but it’s late and the street is empty.  Sherlock reaches out and grabs his arm.  “Where are you going?”</p><p>“Out.”  He yanks his arm away.</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“Not here!”  John shouts.  His voice is loud in the early morning darkness.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Sherlock!”  And there is clear warning in John’s voice this time.</p><p>“Why?!”  Sherlock insists, because suddenly it seems like the most important question in the world.</p><p>John’s hands clench at his side, and he turns, and starts to walk away.  Sherlock moves to follow, but John stops, swings around suddenly, and marches back until he is so close Sherlock can see the way his whole body trembles, the way his face is flushed red with the effort of keeping so much damped down.  He feels John’s breath on his face when he finally replies.  “Because I don’t trust myself if I stay!”  he, finally spits out.  “So, just Let.  Me.  Go.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the delay on this installment. It's been a tough go with this one.
> 
> Once again, a big thanks any and all of you who are following this series, reading, leaving kudos or comments. Your support is so appreciated and it keeps me going.
> 
> You can read this as a stand alone, but I highly suggest reading the rest of "The Homecoming" series, because I think it makes much more sense in context.

“Sherlock, why is there a solicitor texting you?”

“Hmm?”

“Here.  Look.”  John shoves Sherlock’s mobile under his nose, between him and the flayed, cracked open corpse in front of him.

“Excuse me,” Molly interjects, leaning in an attempt to remove the heart from the thoracic cavity.

Sherlock steps back and sighs.  “It’s nothing.  Delete it.”

“It’s not nothing.  He says he needs to speak to you about Mycroft’s estate.”

Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal.  “He’s been calling me constantly.  He’s boring.  It doesn’t matter.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock just shrugs and returns to Molly’s side.  “There.  That.  What is that?”

Molly leans in a little to get a closer look at the dark spot on the man’s liver.

“Sherlock!”  John repeats.

“What?!”

John looks disproportionately serious.  “He’s saying you are the primary inheritor.  Here.  Look.”

John shoves the phone back under his nose.  It’s open to his email account, the oldest email from the man in question.

Sherlock scowls.  “How did you access my email?”

John smirks.  “You aren’t the only one who can guess passwords.  Bit obvious wasn’t it?”

Sherlock huffs.  “Mycroft’s estate can wait.”

“I’m not sure it can.  This is the—tenth email he’s sent you.  And then there are the texts, and…”  John thumbs open his phone app.  He arches a brow.  “Eight phone calls.”   John looks up, his eyes soften ever so slightly.  “Sherlock.  You can’t just ignore this.  It has to be done.  I—I’ll go with you, if you like.”

Molly removes the liver from the corpse and pretends to not be listening.

Sherlock turns his back to John, and waves his hand in dismissal as he walks over to examine the organ Molly is weighing in the scale beside the autopsy table.  “I have better things to do.  So shut up, or go away if you can’t.  You’re breaking my concentration.”

Molly glances up at him.  Her eyes look troubled.

“Sherlock.  You have to call this man back.”

“Why?”

John lets out an incredulous bark of a laugh.  “You are kidding?”

“No.  I have no interest in Mycroft’s estate.  It’s more trouble than it’s worth, I imagine.  Multiple properties here and on the continent, bank accounts in three different countries.”

John’s jaw is hanging open.  “So then—yeah.  Yeah, Sherlock, you definitely need to return these calls.”

“Go away, John!”  Sherlock suddenly snaps.  He’s had more than enough of the conversation and the energy he has for these sorts of things is running dangerously low.  He needs what little he has left for this case, to fuel his concentration, which he has already explained once.  “You’re doing nothing but being a nuisance.”

John takes a small step back.  His eyebrow arches upward, and then his eyes narrow as his mouth tightens.  “Yeah.  Fine.  Okay.  Just trying to help, but why should that matter?  I’m just your…”  And John stops, jaw clenched.

Sherlock straightens up to his full height and stares.

John’s mouth opens, closes, opens again.  His eyes flit to Molly, and then he shakes his head, turns on his heel and tosses Sherlock’s phone onto the nearby counter with a clatter as he leaves.

“Careful!”  Sherlock snaps.

Molly is back examining the corpse when he turns around.  “Sherlock…”  Her eyes lift beneath her lashes, lock briefly with his, and then look away again.  “He’s only trying to help.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

“Maybe you should go after him.”

“Oh, do shut up, Molly!”

She straightens up, her lips a straight line, one hand against her hip.  It leaves a smear of blood over her lab coat.  “That was rude.” 

He blinks.  

“Say your sorry.”

“What?”

“You can’t tell your friends to shut up just because you’re not partial to what they have to say.  Now, say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Molly nods.  “Apology accepted.”

Sherlock stares back down at the corpse.  The man’s colon looks enlarged.

“You’re upset about your brother so you’re taking it out on John.  That’s not fair.  Go after him and work it out.”

“Oh, and I suppose you’re the expert on relationships now that you and Greg are a— _thing_.”

Molly bites down on the inside of her cheek.  “Just go after him.”

“I need to see the rest of the autopsy,”  Sherlock sounds petulant even to his own ears.

“I’ll email you the results.”

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.  “Fine.”

Molly smiles.  “Good.  Then go.”

* * *

 

John is nowhere to be found when Sherlock exit’s the morgue.  He texts him and gets no response.  He calls.  Still nothing.

When he gets back to the flat it is empty and silent. Sherlock waits in his chair by the fire.  Silent.  Still.  Fingers tented beneath his chin.  He waits, and waits, and waits.  He watches the second hand glide around the clock face in the kitchen.  After several hours he paces, then attempts to read, to compose; contemplates whether or not it might be considered acceptable to slip out and buy a pack of cigarettes at the shop at the end of the street.

When the light levels outside begin to drop a sort of frenetic irritation grips him.  He texts and calls again.  Still nothing.  He texts Lestrade.  John is not with him and Molly.  He texts Mike Stamford.  John is not there.  He texts Harry.  She is sympathetic, but John is not with her and the other woman, either.

Sherlock takes a bath, but that makes it worse.  He tries to sleep, but it is impossible without John’s presence in the flat.  The clock ticks on and on.  The hour grows later and later.

It’s a quarter past midnight.  No John.

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs. Hudson is bleary-eyed when she answers his knock at her door.  “Sherlock?  Goodness, what’s wrong?”

“Is John here?”

“What?”

“John.  He’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone?”  She looks truly concerned now.

“Gone, gone.”

“He went out?”

“He was—he’s angry with me.  He left.”

“Oh…”  Mrs. Hudson clucks sympathetically and holds the door open for him. “Did you two have a little domestic.  He’ll be back.  He’s probably just out walking it off.”

“He’s been gone since this afternoon.”  Sherlock walks in, and goes to the kitchen, where he slumps into the nearest chair.

“I’m sure he’s fine.  Here.  I’ll make you some tea.”

_Eyes heavy.  Hair uncombed and pressed in on one side.  Dressing gown.  Rumpled nightie underneath._

“I woke you up?”

“It’s fine, Dear.”

“No.”

Mrs. Hudson turns and smiles.  “It’s fine.  You’re worried.  I know.”

Sherlock folds his arms on the table, lays his head down atop them and stares at a small spider crawling amidst the blue flowers of the kitchen wallpaper.  “I was rude to him.”  He says after several minutes of silence broken only by the domestic clatter of Mrs. Hudson making tea.

“Well he’s difficult too, and you two always manage to work it out.”

Sherlock buries his face in his arms.  He shouldn’t have come.  He doesn’t want to talk to anyone—not really.   Well, John.  Yes, of course John, but John isn’t here and that is the whole problem.

“Oh, it will be fine, Dear.”  Mrs. Hudson pats his head, and slides a cup of tea and a lemon tart in front of him.  “Here, have your tea.”

Sherlock does have his tea, because there is nothing else to be done.  It’s nearly 1:00 am according to the clock by the door, and John is out there somewhere, alone.  Perhaps he’s just gone to the pub alone.  Perhaps he’s gotten drunk.  He’s smart enough to take a cab home in such an instance.  But if he’s angry he might be itching for a little fight.  He might have gotten into some kind of altercation.  He might be blind to danger.  He might be outnumbered.  He might be lying in an alley somewhere beaten to a pulp, and…

The tea cup slips out of his hand, and lands with a clatter against the saucer.  Tea bleeds out across Mrs. Hudson’s pressed, linen tablecloth.

“Oh, that’s alright.”  A tea towel appears, presses down over the milky-brown puddle.  And then a hand reaches out and takes his.  Mrs. Hudson’s hand is warm, her skin soft, and tissue thin.  Sherlock suddenly realizes how old she is getting.  As old as his own mother, or close to it. 

His hand is trembling in hers.  Why is it trembling?

“John is fine, I’m sure.  Why don’t you try calling him again.”

“He won’t answer.”

She sighs, and gives his hand a little squeeze before letting it go, and settling into the chair beside him.  “He does that.  When you were away, after the funeral, after he moved out, he never came and saw me—not once.  He never even so much as called.  He just drifted away.  So, you mustn’t let him, Sherlock.  He does that, but I don’t think he means to.  It never seems to make him very happy, but he does it just the same.”

“He’d never have left in the first place, if not for me.”  Sherlock nibbles at the corner of the tart in front of him.  It’s sweet, but he decides he doesn’t like it.  He puts it back on the plate.

“Nonsense.  You’re allowed to have tiffs.  Everyone does.  But this, out all hours, not answering his phone, making you sick with worry…”  Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue and shakes her head in disapproval.  “You need to tell him he mustn’t do this.  Tell him how worried you were.”

“I was rude.”

“You’re always rude, Dear.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up.  He wonders if he should be offended.  But, it is close to the truth, and Mrs. Hudson is smiling.

“He’ll come home,” she encourages, reaching out to give his hand another squeeze.  “He’ll always come home to you.  I saw it from the first day you two stepped foot in this flat.  Some people are made for one another.  That’s how it is with the two of you.”

And as if on cue, keys jangle in the lock at the front door, the hinges creak.

“See.  There he is.  Now go make things right.  It will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

John looks up and scowls and Sherlock steps out the door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat and into the shadows of the entry.  “It’s one in the morning?  What are you doing at Mrs. Hudson’s?”

“You weren’t answering your phone?”

“What?”  John is still scowling.  He looks irritated.

“You weren’t answering your phone, your texts.  I waited and waited.  I called everyone we know.”

“You what?”

“Where were you?”

“Out.  But, wait.  You called everyone we know and told them that I was missing?”

“Asked them if you were there.”

John huffs out an angry laugh and shakes his head.  “So, that’s why Greg texted me and asked me if I was alright.  Nice…”

“I was worried,” Sherlock repeats even though he knows he is starting to sound like a broken record.

“Sherlock, most of the time you don’t even notice I’ve left the flat!”

“Why wouldn’t you answer your phone?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk to you.”  

John is stripping off his coat now, starting up the stairs.  Sherlock follows because he’s not done talking, and John is just walking away from him, and he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you at Bart’s.”

John stops on the landing, but doesn’t turn around.

“I—I don’t know what was…  I did—I mean, I do want you to…”  Sherlock sighs in frustration.  He’s too keyed up on adrenaline from the anxiety John’s prolonged absence has caused.  He’s too worried that he won’t say the right thing, and he doesn’t know how he feels, why he was so short with John at the morgue earlier.

John turns.  “What are you babbling about, Sherlock?  Spit it out.  I’m tired, and I want to go to bed.”

The words sting.  “I’m sorry.”  _Inadequate.  That’s already been proven.  But, what is the alternative?_

“So you’ve said.”  John turns back around, and continues up the stairs.  Once he reaches the flat, he tosses his coat onto the couch, and heads down the hallway toward the toilet.  “I’m going to bed.” He says before he shuts the door.

Sherlock just stands and blinks.  Is John going up to his own room?  Is he planning to still sleep in their bed?  If he does is Sherlock welcome?

Sherlock walks down the hall, strips quickly, and climbs beneath the covers.  If John is going to run away, the least Sherlock can do is ensure himself a decent night sleep.  He’s trying and John is being impossible.

John comes out of the adjoining door to the toilet, and stops, stares at Sherlock lying in the bed with the covers tucked all the way up under his nose.  “You’re here then.  Fine.  I’m going upstairs.”

He shuts off the light and leaves.  

Sherlock blinks into the darkness, listens to John’s footsteps retreat down the hallway and up the stairs, and suddenly he is angry, more angry than he can ever remember being at John in his life.  He scrambles out of bed, fumbles into his pajama bottoms in the dark, and goes after him.

John is just settling into bed with the bedside lamp on when Sherlock throws open the door to his bedroom.  His eyes widen a little in surprise, and then the scowl, which seems the only expression he is capable of since earlier in the afternoon, returns to his face.  “Sherlock, what the hell?!”

“You’re angry at me!  Fine!  Be angry!  I was wrong.  I was rude.  I apologized.  But, you don’t get to just go out and not answer your phone, not return my texts, let me think you are lying in an alley dead somewhere!  You don’t get to ignore me, push me away, shut me out because it’s what you always do!”  The words tumble out in a rush, one after another.  He’s managing not to shout, but just barely.

John’s mouth is hanging open.

“I thought something had happened.  After—after everything we’ve been through I couldn’t fathom any other reason why you wouldn’t at least text me back and tell me to piss off.  

“‘Not leaving,’ you claim, but you’ll still just walk off without a by-your-leave because you don’t like the way I spoke to you?!  Well, I’m sorry John, I’m a rude, clueless, insensitive arsehole.  That’s who I am, that’s what I do.  And I’m trying—I’m trying to be better for YOU.  So the least—the very least you could do was try in return.  Just tell me when I’m wrong.  No more walking away.  No more stubbornly sticking your head in the sand.”

John’s mouth clamps shut, forms into a tight line.  A muscle in his jaw twitches.  “Fuck you.”

Sherlock blinks.  “What?”

“I said: fuck you!”

Sherlock swallows tightly, sucks in an indignant breath through his nose.  “No, John.  Fuck _you_.  I’m trying.  Just what are you doing?”

John’s lips spread into the tight and slightly murderous smile he used to reserve for people like Jim Moriarty, or occasionally his sister.  “No.  I’m not doing this.”  He gets to his feet, starts shrugging into a jumper, stripping his pajamas, pulling a pair of jeans back on.  

“So you’re just going to leave again?  And what?  What, John?”

John walks out, fairly jogs down the stairs.  But, Sherlock follows, snatches his scarf and coat off the hook on the wall and buttons it as he goes.  “You’re just going to wander the streets all night?  It’s starting to rain, you know.  Is pneumonia really preferable to sitting in the same room as me and telling me why you’re so damn angry?”

John says nothing, just slips into his shoes and walks out the front door.  Sherlock does the same and follows.  John scans the street for a cab, but it’s late and the street is empty.  Sherlock reaches out and grabs his arm.  “Where are you going?”

“Out.”  He yanks his arm away.

“Where?”

“Not here!”  John shouts.  His voice is loud in the early morning darkness.

“Why?”

“Leave it, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock!”  And there is clear warning in John’s voice this time.

“Why?!”  Sherlock insists, because suddenly it seems like the most important question in the world.

John’s hands clench at his side, and he turns, and starts to walk away.  Sherlock moves to follow, but John stops, swings around suddenly, and marches back until he is so close Sherlock can see the way his whole body trembles, the way his face is flushed red with the effort of keeping so much damped down.  He feels John’s breath on his face when he finally replies.  “Because I don’t trust myself if I stay!”  he, finally spits out.  “So, just Let.  Me.  Go.”  He turns and walks away again.

Sherlock watches his back retreat down the sidewalk, and a kind of desperate need grips him.  “I trust you,” he calls after him.

John stops.  His hands ball at his side, his head drops.

Sherlock takes the few steps necessary to bridge the gap between them.  “I trust you, John,” he repeats.

He can see John’s back heaving slightly.  His breathing is reaching a dangerous cadence.  “Yeah?  Well, you shouldn’t.”  It’s bitter, almost disgusted, but weak too. 

Sherlock reaches out for John’s arm again, turns John to face him, and pulls him close.  “I trust you,” he says again against John’s hair, because how does John not know?  How could John ever think…?

John makes a sort of half-hearted effort to pull away, but gives up easily.  “I’m angry all the time, Sherlock.  All the time.  Did you know that?”  It’s ragged against Sherlock’s chest.

“I know.”

“And someday I’m not going to walk away fast enough, I’m—I’m not going to be able to…”    John takes a deep breath, another, and another, no exhalation.

“Breathe, John.”  Sherlock tightens his arms around John’s waist just a little.

“And—and—and you’ll be in the way.  Do you—I can’t…”

“It’s alright.”

“No it’s not!”  John does pull away then.  His face has gone from red, to dead pale.  “It’s not okay!”

Sherlock sees a couple of lights in the flats across the street flick on.  It’s starting to rain.  They need to get in off the street.

“Come back inside, John.  It’s cold.  Please.”

John looks around as though only now realizing that it is the middle of the night.  He is panting hard.  He nods once, and then heads back into the flat.  Sherlock follows, relieved.  They are barely in the front door, when John swings around again.  “It is not okay, Sherlock!” in a harsh whisper.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock whispers back.  

John tramps up the stairs, rather too loudly in Sherlock’s opinion, but better to get him back upstairs, back into a safe and familiar space if he is about to have another panic attack.  It would be preferable if it didn’t get to that point, really, but emotions are high and he is well on his way.

Sherlock takes John’s hand when they get to the top of the stairs and leads him down the hallway to the bedroom.  John lets himself be led.  Lets himself be undressed and led to bed.  When Sherlock has done the same and settled in beside him, leaving one small lamp beside the bed on, he finally speaks.  “It’s not alright?”

John’s chest is still rising and falling much to fast, but he’s safe now.  “You know it’s not.  I—I’ve hit you before, Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“And afterwards, for weeks we didn’t talk.  And you thought I was angry at you, and I was.  But I was more angry at myself, and I was—I was terrified.”

“Terrified?”

“That I could feel what I felt for you, and do that all the same.”

“I left you, and when I came back I made a mess of it.  You had a right to be angry.  I could have given you a heart attack. I practically did, and you…”

“Yes, exactly.  You came back.  You came back and I knew.  I knew I loved you then.  I knew I loved you from the start, you know that, but from the moment you rung me outside Bart’s and told me to look up I knew I couldn’t live without you either, and all I could think was please, please give me a second chance.  Then there you were in that fucking ridiculous disguise, and I didn’t tell you.  I didn’t—I didn’t…  

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I wanted to fuck you.  I wanted to fuck you senseless and instead I split your lip and nearly broke your nose, and I hated myself.”

Sherlock lifts a brow in astonishment.  John is very serious, and now is not the time, but…  “Really?”

“Yes.  God yes.” 

“Oh…”

“But the point is, I wanted to love you, and I hurt you instead, because—because I was too much of a fucking coward.  I’m so tired of always being so afraid, always feeling so angry.  I don’t ever want to do something like that to you again.”

“You won’t”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because you are going to tell me when you are angry, and then you’re going to tell me why.”

A tiny furrow forms between John’s brows.  “I am?”

“Yes, John.”

“Why?”

John is calming.  Sherlock has his full and utter attention, eyes locked with his, leading him.  “Because it’s what you want.”

John goes quiet.  His eyes are searching Sherlock’s.  After a moment he sighs, and reaches out a hand, traces his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone.  “I am sorry.  I’m sorry I worried you.  I won’t do that again.  I—I’ll text you next time.”

“Or you could just stay and tell me what I’ve done.  I want to fix it, John.  I don’t want to hurt you either.”

John nods.  His thumb is still tracing small trails along Sherlock’s cheekbone.  He lets his hand slide back, card through Sherlock’s hair.  “Sherlock, you can’t ignore that solicitor forever.  You know that, right?  It has to be done.  And I’ll go with you if you like, but—it has to be done, okay.”

Sherlock nods.  “I was trying to tell you—before.  Yes.  If you come, yes.  I want you to.”

John nods.  “Yeah.  We’ll go.  Maybe tomorrow you can text him back.  Set a time—any time.  And we’ll go together.”

Sherlock pulls in closer.  John’s eyes are soft.  His breathing has completely evened out.  His fingers trace lazy circles against the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  

“Thank-you,” Sherlock whispers.

John nods.  His eyes are traveling over Sherlock’s face, taking in every detail.  What he is looking for, Sherlock has no idea, but he relishes in the attentiveness.  John lifts his fingers from Sherlock’s hair and slides the back of his fingers along his jaw.  His hand reaches the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw and then balls into a fist.  He swallows hard.

“Why do you do that—what happened at Bart’s today?  Why do you ignore me or act like a dick when I’m just trying to help?”

Sherlock feels his chest tighten with a surge of anxiety.  It’s a fair question, but one he’s not sure he has an answer for.  “I don’t…”  But, no.  He needs to try.  “I don’t know.  It just hurts.  And then I—I don’t know why or how to…  I can’t make it stop.”

A furrow forms between John’s brows.  “What hurts?”

“Mycroft.  What happened with Moriarty.  All of it.  The fact that he’s not here.  He’s always been here, and now he’s not, and—I can’t…”

John’s eyes soften.  His fingers weave back into the curls at the back of his head.  “I know.”

Sherlock lets out a small huff.  Something lets go in his chest, a tension suddenly releasing, and words pour out.  “I don’t know what words to say, John.  I just feel it, and I don’t know what it is.  It’s just—it’s just there, and so strong, and sometimes it’s too much, and you want me to look at it and I can’t because I don’t even know what it is.  You ask me how I feel about it and I don’t know.  I sincerely don’t know.”

“Okay.  Okay.”  John’s fingers still against his scalp.  He pulls in a little closer until the full length of him, slots in against Sherlock.  Their hearts beat in synchrony.

“I couldn’t even look at him those few months before he died.  You know that.  You know what we thought.  It looked like—for all the world like betrayal.”

“I know.”  John’s arm wraps around his waist, and pulls him even closer.  “Betrayal of the worst kind.”

Sherlock nods.  He feels the bite of tears at the corners of his eyes and feels frustrated.  He buries his face in John’s neck because it is easier that way.  “I couldn’t look at him.  And then we learned the truth, but by then he was just gone and I didn’t—I didn’t have time to tell him—to say…”  Sherlock’s voice catches, breaks, and then the tension is back in his chest—tight, hot suffocating.    John’s arms tighten around him.

And Sherlock hates this—hates it!  How the feelings sneak up, ambush him, rule him when they do.  And it’s easier, so much easier to not feel at all, and why can’t John see that?!  But then John is here.  It’s John’s arms around him.  And John is saying nothing, just holding him so close, so tight.

“I just wanted to say thank-you,” he chokes.  “For everything.”

John remains silent and Sherlock is grateful.  What is there to say, after all.  Anything now would feel hollow, stupid, inadequate.  No words.  For some things there are just never any words.

“He—he thought I hated him.”

“No.”  John’s lips mouth the word against the shell of his ear, follow it with a whisper of a kiss.

“Yes.  The—the last thing I said to him was…”  But Sherlock can’t say it, can barely stand to even think about the hateful things he had said to Mycroft when they had learned of his involvement with Moriarty.  John had been injured, too, and Sherlock could think of nothing but the blinding, white hot rage coursing through his veins in that moment.  Once again his feelings had clouded his perception and judgement, and he hadn’t thought to look deeper.

“It doesn’t matter,” John murmurs against his temple.  “He knew you loved him.”

And these words break Sherlock, without him understanding why.  All the emotion that had been lying dormant somewhere deep at the center of him, all the things damped down, locked up tight, all the overwhelming grief at his own ignorance, blindness, sentiment, stupidity, all of it overwhelms him, and he just drowns.  And he is vaguely aware of John, still there, arms wrapped tight around his body, the only thing keeping him anchored, keeping his head above the flood.

It wrings him out and leaves him weak, and almost disoriented.  John’s breath is warm and moist against his forehead.  His arms are strong.  His heartbeat is even, steady.  Sherlock concentrates on the sound of it, on the soft susurration of the blood flowing through his veins.

Sherlock gulps in a breath.  “He was all I had.”

John says nothing.

“He—I made things so difficult for him—always—always.  I—I just thought—I never thought he…  I thought he would always be there.  He always was.  He—he seemed indestructible somehow.”

Sherlock buries his face deeper into the crook of John’s neck, drinks in the scent of him, the warmth of his skin.  “I just wish I’d… He was always the one there, cleaning up after me, patient—mostly.  I just took it for granted, and I wish I’d not.  I wish I’d—there are things I wish I’d said that I didn’t.”

He feels John nod.  “I know.”

“And I don’t want his money.  I don’t want his houses.  I don’t care about those things.”

“I know.”

“Why?  Why would he…?”

“You don’t think about money because it’s always been there, Sherlock.  But trust me, if you suddenly didn’t have any you would realize why.  He just wanted you to always be taken care of in that way, I suppose.  It’s one less thing you need to think about.  It’s a gift.  And yeah, it’s probably going to be a bit of a challenge getting everything squared away with the solicitor, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft mostly had that all taken care of too.  He’s just looking after you.”

“John.”

“Mmm.”

“I really am sorry I snapped at you.”

“I know.  I’m sorry I left and didn’t answer your calls.”

“It’s alright.”

“No.”

“I forgive you, then.”

John seems to accept this.  His lips press against the top of Sherlock’s head.  “Come here.”

Sherlock tilts his chin up, and John smiles.  “Come here.”

Sherlock pushes up a little until his eyes are even with John’s.  John reaches out, and lays a hand on his cheek.  “It’s okay, you know.”

Sherlock frowns in confusion.

“Your missing him.  Your wishing you’d had time to say all the things you never did.  It’s okay.  It’s okay to not know what to do with everything you feel about that.”

“Is it?”  Sherlock wonders if he should be offended that John thinks him that emotionally ignorant.  But there is a comfort in the confirmation of what he already knew, and it is John’s way of reaching out, making amends.  It softens the sting greatly.

John smiles softly.  “Yeah.  And I’m here if you want to talk about.  And if you don’t, I’m here for that too.  Whatever you need.  Whatever you want.  I’m here.  Okay?”

Sherlock just nods.

And then John is leaning in, kissing him, and everything blurs as it always seems to when John’s lips are on his.  He loses himself in it.


End file.
